


Turn Blue

by Archedes



Series: ash gray [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Light-Hearted, M/M, Post-Recall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8743108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes
Summary: “I believe Winston when he tells me that he wants to do good, but try as I may I cannot find myself interested in an Overwatch that does not have you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wisty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisty/gifts).



> bday present for wistopher "wisty" thefinalpam on twitter/tumblr. love u. also i guess this is a sequel to a little compassion.
> 
> edit: hey hi my good buddy alfheimr drew some [REALLY SWEET](http://alfheimr.tumblr.com/post/154068329839/tender-based-off-of-this-fic-by-my-pal-archedes) art of this!!

McCree hasn’t stayed in one place for this long since his Blackwatch days. He vaguely remembers Gibraltar, was stationed here once or twice before, not enough to make a distinct impression. The buildings—the ones Winston had no use for prior to the recall—proudly display the years of abandonment. Slowly but surely, as old faces trickle back, they have begun breathing life back into them. Repairing the broken windows and the places where the electrical systems have failed. There are so few of them now that the barracks seem cavernous, and they instead take over the former captains’ quarters.

That’s one thing that makes sticking around easier: having his own place away from everyone else. The beds are bigger than the bunks, too, and that’s also nice. The quilt on the bed is his—the only thing he’s kept from Deadlock—but the sheets are from Angela, who had had sense enough to bring everyday amenities with her when she came back. A soft, pale blue that contrasts terribly with the frayed, dull red of his quilt that still smells faintly of smoke no matter how many times he washes it.

Sprawled atop it is Genji, who lays facedown with his arms tucked beneath one of the pillows. Even with his visor on, McCree knows he’s being watched as he stretches, bending as low as he can, exhaling as he feels the muscles in his back loosen. He used to be able to touch his toes; now he can barely make it midway down his shins.

“Your back still bothers you?” Genji asks. He lifts his head—lazily—half an inch off the pillow but no more.

“Never stopped.” McCree straightens, satisfied despite the accompanying twinge of soreness. “Gimme some room.”

Genji makes a great show of moving over, but when McCree flops beside him, he still finds himself with a sliver of mattress to work with. “You dragged me back into this shitshow. The least you could do is let me have some space on my own damn bed,” McCree complains, one leg hanging over the edge, braced on the floor, to keep from falling off.

“I did not drag you. That implies you put up any sort of resistance.” McCree can hear the smile behind the visor. “As I recall, you were only too happy to be working with me again.”

McCree huffs, and he toys with the pressure lock on his prosthetic rather than face Genji. Taking it off gives him time to think about how to play off—

_The diner was almost exactly as he remembered it: a relic from a different era, though sometime in the years he had been gone, they had reupholstered the booths. All the tears and scuffs from his youth had been replaced by shiny, unblemished plastic. Behind the counter, the old Deadlock photo was still taped to the wall. He was the raggedy looking kid to the far left, smiling bigger than his face could handle as he and the rest of his brothers posed with one of their bikes. McCree pointedly avoided looking at it, embarrassed._

_Something old and twangy played on the jukebox; something he probably knew the name of once but had long since forgotten. The bells above the center entrance jingled cheerfully. McCree didn’t look up to see who’d come in. There had been a fair number of familiar faces scattered around the diner. Not one of them recognized him. He couldn’t blame them; he was a far cry from that dirty, too-skinny punk that had run around with the resident gang. The beard probably helped, too. That was fine. He wasn’t particularly interested in any kind of reunion conversation—especially not with someone from before he had gotten his life straightened out._

_Someone slid into the seat across from him, and when he glanced up—from under the brim of his hat—a chrome visor stared back at him. His heart jumped in his chest—startled, disbelieving, definitely happy. “Genji,” McCree said a little too loudly, unable to help the smile that broke out across his face. After Overwatch fell, they had kept up sparse correspondence. Difficult, when McCree was always on the run from someone or other. He hadn’t heard from him in nearly three years. “You sonofabitch. How’d you find me?”_

_“I have a few contacts in this area. I assumed you would return here sooner or later.” In comparison, Genji was calm. Fond. His sword was conspicuously absent, and McCree could see the faint glow of his tech through the material of his button-down._

_“Flannel suits you. Don’t know how much it helps you blend in, though.” McCree dashed his cigar in the ashtray and left it there. Doubtless, Genji had his wakizashi concealed somewhere on his person. McCree wondered if he’d had to use it yet._

_“Every little bit helps. Thank you for allowing me to borrow it, by the way.”_

_“Ah. Thought it looked familiar. You at least lock up after yourself?”_

_“Of course,” Genji laughed, and it was somehow so different from the one McCree was used to. It was lighter, had more feeling to it. “I had hoped to surprise you in your motel room.”_

_“Good thing I wasn’t there, then. You know I ain’t a fan of surprises.” It was likely he would have tried to shoot Genji on sight. When Genji laughed again, McCree figured they were both thinking the same thing._

_“More interesting than meeting in a dusty diner.”_

_“Trust me, it used to be a lot dustier. Lot bloodier too. Things have calmed down some, looks like.” McCree leaned back in his seat and took a good look at the man across from him. Not much had changed for him, appearance-wise, aside from a few new dents and scratches on his face-plate. But there had been an edge to the Genji he knew—something hard and angry—that was missing from the Genji sitting with him. “How you been?”_

_“Better. I have…grown considerably in our time apart. But that’s not what I am here about.” Genji produced a communicator from the breast pocket of his—McCree’s—shirt. The Overwatch logo emblazoned on it was not as vibrant as it used to be. “Have you gotten word of the recall?”_

_“Sure didn’t. I chucked mine in a river as soon as I left. Wasn’t interested in talkin’ to anyone who had that number back then.” He couldn’t say he was surprised by the prospect of a new Overwatch. Seemed like as much the time for it as any, though he wasn’t exactly eager to go and join up again. “Who’s runnin’ the show this time?”_

_“Winston. In Gibraltar. I haven’t gone back yet, myself.”_

_“What’s keepin’ you?”_

_Genji put his chin in his hand, leaning just that much closer to McCree. “You. Winston told me you had not responded.”_

_“He ask you to come get me?” McCree asked cagily, his mood souring on a dime._

_“No._ I _wanted to come get you. We used to have fun, didn’t we? Back then?”_

 _McCree cleared his throat into his fist, remembering perfectly well how the two of them “used to have fun”. A familiar, old feelingcrackled to life in his chest. It was just_ fun _, but McCree had never been a man in full control of his emotions. Fun for Genji had turned into something painfully real for him. “Didn’t know I made that much of an impression on you,” he said—gruffly, in case Genji could still read him as easily as he used to._

 _Genji tilted his head. “There were not many things that made me happy when I was in Overwatch. As you know.” Somehow, by his tone, McCree felt like he was being lectured. He wondered where on earth Genji had picked_ that _up. “I believe Winston when he tells me that he wants to do good, but try as I may I cannot find myself interested in an Overwatch that does not have you.”_

_“That’s awful sweet of you.” It came out more heartfelt—less sarcastic—than McCree would have liked._

_“I know. You once gave me something I desperately wanted. I think now I am in a position to do the same for you.” Turned out Genji's reading was as good as ever._

_“You think I_ desperately _want_ you _?” Twenty-three year old McCree might have been shy about having his feelings so casually brought up. Thirty-seven year old McCree had been through the ringer more times than he could count and couldn’t give less of a shit. Too old for it._

_“Doesn’t everyone?” Genji asked innocently, and for the first time he sounded like his old self again—_

McCree comes up short, so he grumbles as he places his prosthetic on the end table. Peacekeeper is there too, laying on a bed of loose bullets that he never got around to dealing with. Genji shifts, drapes himself across McCree’s bare chest. His body is cooler than McCree’s, but the synthetic weave is quick to warm. “Should thank you for earlier. You really saved my ass in that sim,” McCree says instead.

“We would not want to disappoint Commander Winston,” Genji answers wryly.

McCree laughs and, in a moment of absolute fondness, he brings one of Genji’s hands to his lips. Genji goes quiet, and the only sound is his filtered breathing. McCree can feel it against his neck—the smoothness of his visor and the gentle, rhythmic puffs of air falling on his skin. He is relaxed—McCree knows—and he melts effortlessly into McCree, tucked against his side beneath what is left of his arm. Laying there like that, McCree really doesn’t know if he would have come back at all, had Genji not come and found him in that diner a year past.

“Are you tired?” Genji asks softly.

“Yeah. Don’t feel obligated to stick around on my account,” he murmurs, kissing each of Genji’s fingers in turn. They twitch slightly, and McCree is satisfied that—to some degree—Genji can feel it. “I know you like to go n’ meditate around this time.”

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

“Now that just makes me seem childish.”

“You will recover.” Genji delicately removes his hand from McCree’s, and he instead traces the line of McCree’s jaw, the hard pads of his fingers brushing through his beard. As if on cue, McCree’s eyes slip shut of their own accord.

Before reuniting with Overwatch, McCree had never been able to sleep easy. Always with his prosthetic on and Peacekeeper under his pillow, boots laced and fully dressed _just in case_. Being able to truly relax is a luxury. He turns on his side so that he can wrap his arm around Genji—who makes a low noise of amusement.

Genji’s hand moves to his shoulder and lower, under McCree’s arm where he can press his palm into the small of his back. Idly, he rubs circles there that have McCree sighing into the top of his head. “You comfortable?” McCree hears himself ask in a voice just above a whisper.

“You are very warm.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s nice.”

McCree hums in reply, running his hand up Genji’s back until he can twine the scarf between his fingers. “You wanna ditch tomorrow and go into town?” The idea comes to McCree on a whim—Genji wearing clothes and trying to blend in as they tour the commercial center. He would not stand out as much as he might have years ago, arm-in-arm with McCree as they stroll past all the shops and cafes and restaurants. Window-shopping: one notorious outlaw and one presumed-dead yakuza prince.

“Is that wise?”

“What’s Winston gonna do? Book us for goin’ AWOL? Lock us up?”

“We shouldn’t take advantage of him.” Genji’s admonishment is halfhearted, and that's when McCree knows he has him.

“Sweetheart, you love takin’ advantage.”

“Ah, that’s true…”

“We can make a real date of it.”

“Aren’t you a little old for that?”

“Genji, a man’s never too old to be wooed.” That earns McCree a laugh, low and breathy, as Genji buries his face into McCree’s chest, at the base of his throat. Warm metal, cool breath.

“Very well.”

“You’re real good to me.”

Genji responds by holding him tighter. It’s comforting, he decides—the way Genji clings to him. The type of comfort he had been hard-pressed to find, all those years on his own. Idly, and on the verge of sleep, he hopes Genji feels the same.


End file.
